It is the first day since it all began that Sebastian has not been here to turn down the covers, pull each item of clothing down, socks and their garters, tie and trousers, overcoat and shirt, all folded. Buttons lined up in rows or lace like every spilling sea of foam. I tell myself it is not as strange as it is. After all, I am no child. Have not been for some time. It is understandable, after all, to feel the absence of one's habit. With Tanaka, the whole routine is different. Faster, actually, a thought that might strike me as funny, given Sebastian's penchant for timeliness, if I was in the mood for such levity.
I am not.
I unbutton my own buttons, pull my nightshirt close, so that I might avoid him seeing the brand on my back, and after assuring himself that all is well, he leaves.
The silence is so empty, without that presence directed toward me. Even on the nights when I did not ask him to stay, I knew that he was aware, and watching. The absence of it is odd. It is like an old wound, aching with rain about to come.
How ridiculous. There is no reason to keep thinking of storms now; so far from the ocean as we are. Despite what the demon said, my words in his regard have cursed nothing.
I know my sleep will be disturbed, but I expect the same familiar nightmares: terrible, yes, but I have had practice enough in how to take stock of my surroundings when I wake, to silence my beating heart, to feel the taste of iron on my tongue as nothing like blood. Not there, but here. Instead it is the ocean that takes me. A great expanse of endless water, and the ship in its own death throes. I see his eyes again, as he reaches. Yes, I am afraid, but I know he will reach me. He always does. He always does, but this time… this time the arc of blood that sings through the air, a scythe through his chest, his mouth gaping open and blood, more blood. The moment seems endless. I wake up afraid.
There is nothing but shadows above me. The night is close and still, and I remind myself that Sebastian is alive; that he made it—how could he not? After all, he had promised me, once. And he and I never break such things.
I wonder if he is lying awake in his own bed, called from his own silent thoughts by my terror, wondering if he ought to get up despite the bandage,the way his breathing still labours. I know him too well. When the door opens a few moments later, I am not surprised to find that it is him I see, dressed in his uniform even at this hour—even though he is meant to be resting.
"You didn't have to come," I say. He has not brought the candles—his only concession of weakness. That, and the way he hovers at the door, as though I won't notice the way his hand resting on the frame is for support.
"I could hardly rest when you called for me so loudly," he says, as though in reproach. After a moment he walks over to the side of the bed. In the darkness he might be merely an indistinct shadow to anyone else, but the faint light of my contract seal flickers to illuminate him. There's a pallor to his skin, a sheen of sweat on a usually impeccable surface. I wonder how long he will manage to stand before he collapses from exhaustion.
"Sit down," I say, with some exasperation.
"Sir?" As if he doesn't know.
"Sit down, Sebastian. I won't have you fainting on me. It would be too much trouble, and an embarrassment besides. Sit on the bed."
"Sir, I would never presume—"
"I'll order you if I must."
He sits; letting out a shaking breath as he does. One hand moves as though he is going to clutch at his stomach before he collects himself, and for a moment after he settles himself, he stares straight ahead in a way that seems so human, that reaction of trying to master unbearable pain.
I can't think of Undertaker right now or the betrayal will make me nauseous, so instead I sit up, letting the covers fall from me, and move closer to my butler.
"How is it? The wound?"
"It's healing adequately, master."
"But it still hurts."
He doesn't look at me, but his mouth tightens as though he would like to contradict me. I am struck by the overpowering urge to just make sure he is all right. Sebastian would say he was fine until he keeled over… just another way in which this stupid demon can't be trusted. I have to think of everything myself.
"You had the bandages changed?"
"Yes. Really, it is nothing to worry about…"
"Let me be the judge of that," I snap, and he subsides. I press a hand lightly to his front, over the wound, and he winces.
"Nothing to worry about," I say, drily.
"Well, when you're not pushing on it," Sebastian retorts. I huff a laugh.
"I'm hardly touching you. Take off your tailcoat, I'm sure you'd feel more comfortable without it."
"I preferred you when you weren't quite so attentive of my wellbeing," Sebastian says, under his breath, and then stops as though shocked he's actually spoken. I feel his forehead. It feels hot to me, but then I am not the best judge of other people's fever.
"I suppose sending for a doctor wouldn't help."
"Young master," Sebastian says, "if I were in mortal danger, you would know."
"So just extreme discomfort, then?"
Sebastian sighs.
"Take off your tailcoat."
Shakily, he complies. It takes longer than it ought to, and when he finishes, he is breathing heavily and leaning on me for support. I un-do the buttons on his cuffs so I can push his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. He leans forward, burying his face in my hair as his breathing slowly evens out.
"You should have stayed in bed," I say at last.
"...Perhaps."
When he finally seems to have recovered his composure, I tell him to lie down, at which he ventures hardly a protest, which might alarm me more if he hadn't already assured me he will be well. He needs rest, obviously, and he can hardly keep himself upright even sitting. I tug awkwardly at the covers before deciding I can't pull them out from under him and anyway, I doubt he needs them. Instead, I crawl back under the covers beside him. It's odd, but not unpleasantly so, to have him there beside me. I feel inexplicably comforted to know someone is there. He doesn't fall asleep, but seems to instead lose his awareness of what is around him, his eyes still open but without looking anywhere, his breathing evening as his limbs lose that rigid stillness. When he puts an arm over me I bite back a sharp word when it doesn't seem like he has realized what he is doing. Whatever kind of rest he is partaking of—and he does seem to be resting—has disconnected his conscious mind from the proceedings. Still, it is too much trouble to try to pull away. I fall asleep again almost at once, and when I wake in the morning, Sebastian has somehow managed to stumble back to his rooms.
I never doubted he would.
.
.
.